


From Your Hands

by xpityx



Series: From Your Hands [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 07:32:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15791916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xpityx/pseuds/xpityx
Summary: The problem, Geralt thought as he set fire to another staggering corpse, was not that the undead were dangerous as such - they seemed to want to do nothing but follow their still-living relatives around - but it was that the sudden influx of them'd had exactly the same effect on the necrophage population as a good war did, never mind that these dead bodies walked. When he’d last bumped into Lambert on the border of Temeria they’d ended up in a local tavern, drinking terrible ale and trying to come up with new collective nouns for the sheer number of alghouls they were seeing. A ‘mold’ was for more than ten, a ‘rot’ was for more than 30, and a ‘necrosis’ was for more than 50. Thankfully there were only a couple of graveirs who’d found this village, and he’d been paid to destroy the dead rather than the necrophages themselves. Despite most people realising that fire got rid of them permanently, many had proved reluctant to burn to their loved ones, regardless of the number of maggots they were infested with.Geralt killed the last graveir, the smell of putrid death in his nose and his shoulder aching from near constant use. He felt like he hadn’t slept in a month. And the dead kept coming.





	From Your Hands

**Author's Note:**

> S̶o̶ ̶I̶ ̶h̶a̶v̶e̶ ̶s̶e̶n̶t̶ ̶t̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶b̶e̶ ̶b̶e̶t̶a̶'̶d̶,̶ ̶b̶u̶t̶ ̶I̶ ̶a̶l̶s̶o̶ ̶h̶a̶v̶e̶ ̶n̶o̶ ̶i̶m̶p̶u̶l̶s̶e̶ ̶c̶o̶n̶t̶r̶o̶l̶ ̶s̶o̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶m̶i̶g̶h̶t̶ ̶c̶o̶n̶t̶a̶i̶n̶ ̶l̶e̶s̶s̶ ̶c̶o̶m̶m̶a̶s̶ ̶i̶n̶ ̶a̶ ̶d̶a̶y̶ ̶o̶r̶ ̶s̶o̶.̶.̶.̶ Kit has made this better. Let's give them thanks.

_The problem, Geralt thought as he set fire to another staggering corpse, was not that the undead were dangerous as such - they seemed to want to do nothing but follow their still-living relatives around - but it was that the sudden influx of them had exactly the same effect on the necrophage population as a good war did, never mind that these dead bodies walked. When he'd last bumped into Lambert on the border of Temeria they'd ended up in a local tavern, drinking terrible ale and trying to come up with new collective nouns for the sheer number of alghouls they were seeing. A ‘mold' was for more than ten, a ‘rot' was for more than 30, and a ‘necrosis' was for more than 50. Thankfully there were only a couple of graveirs who’d found this village, and he’d been paid to destroy the dead rather than the necrophages themselves. Despite most people realising that fire got rid of them permanently, many had proved reluctant to burn to their loved ones, regardless of the number of maggots they were infested with._

_Geralt killed the last graveir, the smell of putrid death in his nose and his shoulder aching from near constant use. He felt like he hadn’t slept in a month. And the dead kept coming._

 

-

 

The first he’d heard of it had been from Dettlaff and Regis, who had arrived at Corvo Bianco with some strange news from the North. He’d assumed that some pissant from the Brotherhood had decided that raising the dead was a positive life choice, but both vampires had sworn that they had smelt no necromancy on the dead they’d seen, only the faint scent of old magics. Geralt had dutifully packed up Roach and set off in the general direction his friends had indicated. They’d offered to accompany him, but they usually headed up to the Blue Mountains this time of year and Geralt did not wish to disrupt their routine.

The realisation that there was something really wrong came at a small village, not even a hamlet really, a two-day ride from Carreras. There had been about a dozen dead, standing around listlessly while ghouls munched away on them. Once he'd gotten close enough to start swinging his swords he could see that there were other, less animated corpses strewn around here and there. It had taken him the whole day to burn them all, and he was no closer to working out what was going on.

By the time he’d made it into Redania he’d found several more villages of corpses , and a further few where villagers had grimly burnt their own walking dead only to discover them waiting for them again the next morning, as whole as when they'd first risen from the grave. Working on a hunch, he helped collect firewood for more pyres, and this time they stayed dead. So: one burning further south, two burnings were required further north. They were going to run out of firewood before they ran out of bodies to burn at this rate.

What the fuck was causing it was anyone's guess. A curse was bound to a place, object or person; necromancy was unpredictable, dangerous, and smelt like evil that hadn't washed in a few months. This didn't feel like either. The only magic he'd ever seen as powerful as this was an illusion or a jinn and, well, if this was someone's idea of a good time then he'd prefer not to know about it. He met a Mage in Oxenfurt who was just as baffled as he was. He had planned to head to the centre of whatever was happening and go from there, but he finally remembered that he knew the Empress of the North and the South and that perhaps she might like a first-hand account. Anyway, Yennefer had agreed to the post of Imperial Counselor and, as much as he didn't want to ask her opinion, he probably needed it.

 

-

 

Ciri turned from her advisers the second he was announced, worry clear on her face. Admittedly he didn’t visit as often as he should, and certainly never straight from the path. She cleared the room with a single regal gesture which was so reminiscent of Emhyr that he forgot why he had come for a second. Then she was manoeuvring herself around the table for a warm hug. At seven months pregnant, he ended up mostly hugging around stomach, but he appreciated the gesture nonetheless. The first time she had announced to him that he was going to be a grandfather, they’d both had to pretend they weren’t fighting back tears. It still amazed him every time he thought about it.

"What is it? Are you well?" She asked once they had the room to themselves.

“Yeah, I’m fine - it’s not about me. You might want to get Morvran and Yen in here though, I’d rather not go through this twice.” He had a sudden thought, “Emhyr isn’t here, is he?”

“No, shall I send for him? He can be here within ten days if needed.” Ciri had, very reluctantly, bowed to pressure from her Healers and agreed that she would not travel by portal in all but the direst emergencies during the last stages of her pregnancy, so they were stuck with the slow way of communicating for the most part.

“No, don’t worry about it.” He would probably find out about it the same time as everyone else south of the Yaruga river did, he thought, grimly. Plus Ciri had once confided in him that the Council got very jittery when the former Emperor was within a hundred mile radius of the capital. He couldn't imagine why, he thought drily.

Morvran arrived and greeted Geralt with what looked like genuine warmth. He'd thought the noble was a bit of an idiot at first, but he worshipped the ground that Ciri walked on, and she was fond of him, so Geralt was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. Yen gave him a nod, which was about as polite as they managed with each other.

"We have a walking dead problem," he announced without preamble, "there are legions of them in Redania and Temeria and they are attracting equal numbers of necrophages. Also, whatever's causing it is spreading."

They both looked at him in astonishment for a moment, although Ciri was the first to recover.

“We had started to receive reports of more monsters than usual, but nothing like this.” She paused. “Necromancers?” She asked.

Geralt was already shaking his head, “didn't smell like necromancy, and the area is too big. Too big to be a curse either.”

“Who is affected?” Yen asked, seating herself on the nearest couch, her robes falling gracefully around her.

“Looks like family members: mostly husbands, wives and children coming back and following around their still living relatives. Not many people would talk to me, so it was hard to get details, but there's definitely a familial connection of some kind, but no connection other than...”

He trailed off as he caught the look on Yen’s face: she was looking at him like Vesemir had used to when he’d done something particularly stupid. “It’s a love spell, you idiot.” She announced.

“A love spell?” Morvran asked.

“That makes sense,” Geralt said slowly, ignoring Yen’s insult. People thought love was all fair maidens and knights and shit, but of course a love spell could affect family bonds as well. The power needed would have been unbelievable though. And also, _why?_ He hadn't seen anything that would link the villages and towns he'd seen other than their proximity. Unless - and knowing mages this was highly likely - it was a spell that had gone spectacularly wrong.

“How far has it spread?” Ciri asked.

“The centre looks to be somewhere in the north of Redania, although I didn't actually get that far before turning around and heading here. On the way back it had reached as far as Temeria’s southern borders already.”

“But that’s only a week’s ride from Attre,” she replied with some alarm.

As the place where Emhyr had retired to, it would make sense for Ciri to fear any magic that might make its way there, but he was having a hard time believing that there was anyone who had loved Emhyr var Emreis well enough to come back from the dead for him. Yennefer and Morvran also looked confused, but it was clear from the look on Ciri’s face that she felt that there was a real threat of her father being caught in the spell.

Well, it looked like he was heading back to the border.

 

-

 

He could see the smoke from a mile away and he spurred Roach into a canter. Not that it would make any difference: in his experience once fires had been lit either he was too late of he wasn’t needed. It turned out to be more of the former.

He was greeted by knots of grim villagers who gave him a few coin for killing the last straggling alghoul he found in the outer fields. He rode on through villages, and finally Attre, each filled with silent grief and the smell of roasting flesh, until he came to the well-paved road that lead to Emhyr's residence. There had been a few of Emhyr's personal guards in the town proper, directing villagers away from areas still infested with necrophages and generally keeping an eye on affairs. They were only too happy to inform him that the dead had first risen a little less than a week ago, and they now seemed to be tapering off as they burnt the corpses. Here, at least, it had only taken one burning to get them to stay dead.

As he rode into the estate he could smell the faint smell of burning and rot that told him there had been a pyre here too in the last few days. He saw no evidence of the structure itself, but there were people working in the distance, within a grove of trees a short walk from the main buildings. He slowed a little, trying to work out what was so urgent that it needed five people to build something the size of a weapons shed. Sunlight glinted off a slab of white marble as it was hoisted upright and suddenly Geralt knew: they were building a tomb. He averted his eyes and spurred Roach onwards, trying not to think of a grand mausoleum that would house only ashes.

When he arrived at the main gates he was shown to a well-appointed waiting room by one of the household staff. The guards on the door seemed to recognise him by sight and gave him respectful nods as he passed. All in all, he was feeling a little off balance by the relatively warm welcome when Emhyr's head chamberlain arrived, not twenty minutes after he had sat down.

“Ah, good. Master Witcher.” Mererid said, without his usual sneer.

Geralt felt a deep sense of foreboding as he was ushered towards what he assumed were Emhyr’s rooms. The welcome, along with the knowledge that Emhyr had indeed been caught in the spell, worried him enough to lengthen his stride, forcing Mererid to jog a little to keep up. They were shown into a large, brightly lit room with four attentive guards standing at parade rest. Emhyr sat behind the massive desk that he recognised from his rooms in Nilfgaard, although there were no assistants hovering at his shoulder here.

He didn’t think he knew Emhyr particularly well, despite the way that fate seemed to enjoy throwing them together, but even to him it was clear there was something amiss. Emhyr had never fidgeted, but he had always been a master of the spare, elegant gesture. Now, however, he sat stock still behind his desk, silent while Geralt relayed when he knew of the spell until he ran out of words. He seemed to rouse himself from a great distance to speak.

“I will of course accompany you to uncover the source of the spell.”

“Er, what?” Geralt said, thoughtlessly.

“Unless you have some objection.”

It was almost a question and that, along with Emhyr's demeanor, surprised him into acquiescing. He wasn't even wholly sure what he was agreeing to: a small army following his footsteps? The former Emperor in his carriage as Geralt fought off ghouls and drowners? He had no idea, but he wasn't 100% sure that Emhyr knew what he was asking either, so he decided that retreat was the better part of valour and went when dismissed.

Once he'd had his bath and been served a hearty meal in his rooms, he started to think about the logistics of taking the former Emperor of the whole fucking world on the path with him. One thing he knew at least: Ciri was going to kill him.

 

-

 

The next morning had not apparently seen fit to provide Emhyr with a change of heart, and once Geralt had broken his fast and dressed, Mererid fetched him from his rooms. He felt a little less off balance today as Mererid had apparently used up his yearly allowance of politeness and was back to casting Geralt looks of deep displeasure as they made their way outside.

He started to whistle, which had the desired effect on Mererid, but he came to an abrupt stop once they arrived at the stables to find Emhyr’s great warhorse stood by Roach, but without any hint of an escort. Only Captain Hewelyn was there, looking almost on the edge of tears. In all the scenarios he had considered as he had gotten ready this morning, it had never once occurred to him that Emhyr would travel _alone_. Apparently the Captain was also having a hard time with the concept.

“But, Your Majesty, please if you would…” he was saying as he and Mererid approached.

“I am decided,” Emhyr said, an edge of real anger in his voice.

Hewelyn had apparently heard it too, as he bowed deeply, murmuring one more ‘Your Majesty’ before retreating to a safe distance.

Geralt debated taking his life in his hands and pointing out that Emhyr needed to change his horse for something a little less ostentatious, but before he came to a decision Emhyr spoke.

“What is it?” he asked, shortly.

How did he do that? He hadn’t even turned to _look_ at Geralt.

“You need to change your horse to one that doesn’t scream ‘wealth and power’ to anyone with eyes in their head.”

Emhyr's hands twitched, but he turned and strode towards the stables and spoke to a stable girl, who rushed inside at his demand. Geralt went to follow him to make sure that they did indeed pick a more suitable horse when Mererid spoke.

“Master Witcher, a word, if I may?”

Geralt turned back to him, his hands on Roach’s reigns.

“You will bring back His Excellency in good health or so help me I will find a way to make you suffer.”

“Er, sure,” Geralt said, impressed despite himself.

“Good.”

Geralt shook his head at Mererid’s retreating back as he went in the direction his master had taken: the whole world had gone mad.

 

-

 

At least Emhyr seemed reasonably prepared: he had heavy saddlebags and even a sword strapped to his side.

"You ever used that in a real fight?" Geralt asked once they had cleared Attre.

"I trained twice a week with one of the best swords masters in the kingdom," Emhyr replied, stiffly.

“That’s a ‘no’ isn’t it?”

He got the edge of a murderous look for that, which was better than stilted silence. An Imperial mage had cast a low-level glamour on Emhyr so at least he was unlikely to be recognised by most. Geralt could see through it, as would anyone with a modicum of magical skill. He would have preferred something a little less easy to perceive but the mage had been right in that an easier glamour would last longer than a more complex spell, and they currently had no idea how long it would need to hold for. Geralt planned to get Emhyr back as soon as possible but, as Vesemir had been fond of saying: when one made plans the gods laughed.

He was resolutely not thinking about what it meant that Pavetta had come back. He assumed it had been her, anyway. He had only heard what everyone had heard: that Ciri’s mother had fallen overboard during a storm and Emhyr’s ship had been pulled through a portal before any rescue could be mounted. Ciri had told him as he was preparing to leave for Attre that she when she had asked Emhyr about her mother, he had been so disquieted by the subject that she had not had the heart to speak to him of her again. He hadn’t been able to imagine it at the time, hadn’t been able to imagine Emhyr being ruffled by anything, but now he could see why Ciri had been so anxious for Geralt to get to Emhyr before the spell found him.

“What will the Council think when they hear you’ve ridden into the middle of a powerful spell?” He asked, mainly for something to say.

"They'll be delighted, I'm sure, as it is a plan that would fulfill three of their most desired possible outcomes for any action of mine: it does not involve me being anywhere near the capital; it is useful to the Empire and, most importantly, it involves a great risk of me dying."

Geralt stared at him a second to make sure he wasn’t joking, before groaning in frustration.

“Ciri really _is_ going to kill me.”

 

-

 

Geralt had decided that speed was going to be the best way to go about fixing this mess. If they stopped at every village with a walking dead problem the spell would spread faster than he could burn the corpses, so the best thing to do would be to ride straight through until they found the center of the spell. Of course, the theory was all well and good, but riding past villagers begging for his help was not in his nature, even knowing that when he was done they would likely go back to cursing him. The third time they were waylaid in as many days Emhyr initiated the first conversation that went beyond the bare minimum of words necessary to complete the exchange.

“Have you discovered any danger to these people from their dead beyond the necrophages they attract?” Emhyr asked, which Geralt thought was a reasonable attempt at diplomacy.

"I can't just leave them to be picked off one by one," he replied.

“I am not suggesting you do, you forget that you have powerful allies. Although they will be travelling more slowly than we have, I have no doubt that Cirilla would have sent out a legion or two to follow in our footsteps.”

Geralt knew he was right, but it was difficult to have to tell people that help was on its way when he had no idea how long they would take to reach them. Emhyr took the opportunity to explain the marching speeds of the various platoons of the Nilfgaardian army, which was more than he had wanted to know, but it passed the time and made him feel less shit about riding onwards. He had trouble thinking of Ciri as Empress, so it didn't always occur to him to include the might of the Empire in his plans, but he was used to trusting her to have his back: they only stopped at villages where people were actively in danger from then on out.

They also started to see more people on the road once they crossed into Temeria, all of them headed in the opposite direction. No-one would speak to him, shying away from meeting his eyes whenever he tried, but a few elves spoke to Emhyr in the Elder Speech when he finally deigned to attempt it. They’d heard that North Redania was in a bad way, and local soldiers were struggling to control both the influx of monsters and the local populace. A village outside Oxenfurt had decided that it was the non-human’s fault and had promptly started added them to their pyres along with the walking dead. Geralt was immune to the horrors of monsters, but the horrors of people never stopped surprising him.

They were at least four weeks away from Oxenfurt, and by the sounds of it, it would be tough going after that if people were abandoning their homes to the necrophages. He only hoped that the Nilfgaard army caught up with them before they got to that point and that there was someone capable of talking sense into Emhyr among their ranks.

 

-

 

When he'd been a boy at Kaer Morhen, Vesemir had taken great pains to explain that the path was mostly abject tedium interspersed with brief moments of near death. After two weeks on the road, Emhyr had even begun to initiate conversations himself, no doubt out of soul-crushing boredom. Geralt was actually enjoying the company in the way that one enjoyed sharing misery around: although Emhyr had not once complained about the food, accommodations, or dubious welcomes they received, Geralt was getting good at reading vexation in the line of his shoulders when he looked at a particularly filthy bed, or, even better, at their tent.

“I do not wish to cause trouble for Cirilla, especially so early in her reign.” Emhyr was saying.

“So you think she can’t handle herself?”

Emhyr gave him a look, “that is not what I said.”

“Emhyr, do you _want_ to return to the capital for the birth of your grandchild?”

“Yes,” he said finally, sounding as if the word had been dragged from him.

“Then that’s what you should do.”

Emhyr was silent for so long that Geralt though that was the end of the discussion, but then he added, "Naturally, you will be there for the happy event as well."

Geralt shifted, he both loved and hated seeing Ciri in Nilfgaard. He was painfully proud of the strong, moral woman she was, but also it was always a sharp reminder that she didn’t have any true ties to him anymore. He half convinced himself sometimes that he did her no favours by turning up at the palace, reminding everyone of the years she had spent in the wilderness with a witcher. He couldn’t very well say any of that to Emhyr though, so he was neatly trapped.

“Yeah,” he agreed, “I’ll be there.”

Emhyr’s expression didn’t shift a millimeter, but he still managed to convey smugness somehow.

 

-

 

By the time they arrived in Maribor Geralt was very much looking forward to finding the dumb fuck who'd cast the spell so he could break all his fingers and feed him to some ghouls. At least they'd be able to sleep in a bed for the first time in a week. Emhyr was as unobtrusive as a person could be, but sharing his space with someone for weeks on end was wearing at him and no doubt at Emhyr as well, although he managed to show little sign of it. He hadn't realised until he'd had to share a tent with him how rarely Emhyr touched anyone. He'd seen him touch Ciri just twice, placing a hand on her shoulder when she had been especially upset. He'd never thought about it before, but he had subconsciously reacted to it, taking care when he passed Emhyr a cup or plate to make sure their fingers didn't touch, or to give him his space when they had to share accommodations. It was something he'd learnt in his first month on the path: he'd saved a woman from a Leshen and, although she'd been grateful, she'd cringed from him when he'd put his hands on her to help her up. He was still only a boy then and had none of the bulk that he'd put on since. He remembered feeling sick that he'd frightened her. All the things he was, all that he had been taught to do, facing evils that most would flinch from, had to been to save people, and here was a human flinching from him in fear.

He learnt how to use his status to instil fear, how to loom and threaten with a look, but he’d also made sure to learn how to make himself seem less: how to lean back or sit whilst others stood, how to keep his hands in view and move slowly so as not to appear inhuman. Emhyr was not frightened of him, of course, he was not 100% sure Emhyr was frightened of anything: even as a young man he had been poised and unknowable...

Geralt shook his head a little at himself, he was not sure what his original thought had been, but he had somehow found himself musing on Emhyr's character as they rode into the town proper. He made an effort to pay a little more attention to their surroundings, noticing the increased guard and the crowded streets. It had been like this at every town and city they had passed through: people crowding in from the villages and soldiers struggling to control the sudden influx of people. Frightened people and soldiers were, in his experience, not a good mix. Emhyr must have seen it as well, and he leaned into Geralt to comment, "it will not be more than a week before Nilfgaardian forces arrived. The soldiers here will be able to keep discipline until then.”

Geralt nodded, more hopeful than sure.

As they had been travelling it had nagged at him that they didn't even know what they were looking for when they got there. What could cause this kind of chaos? He'd be very surprised if it was by design. If he didn't know better, he'd say someone had made a wish, but jinns were incredibly rare and, more to the point, who the fuck would wish for this? When he and Emhyr had discussed it, they'd agreed that what they were most likely looking for was something that focused power, which was also what Yen had said to him before he'd left the capital. It didn't give them much to work with though: something old and powerful. Great.

They inquired at the least-awful looking inn for rooms and Emhyr promptly disappeared to find the public baths. Geralt would patronise the baths later - they saw enough of each other without bathing together as well. At first he had been a little nervous of Emhyr wandering around without an escort, but Emhyr had known instantly that Geralt was accompanying him out of a (perfectly legitimate) fear of Ciri's wrath. He also half believed that Meredrid would find a way to murder him should he return Emhyr in anything less than perfect health. Emhyr had reminded him that he has survived a curse, untold assassination attempts, a rebellious North, and Trade Corporation machinations. He had also, much to Geralt's horror, proved adequately capable with the blade he carried. Geralt had spent much of that day fearing Ciri tumbling out of a portal to lecture him on letting her father get close enough to a ghoul to behead it.

Maribor was not as worse off as it first appeared: it had only taken one burning to kill the walking dead and local militia had been dispatched into the countryside to deal with the necrophages. The talk in the tavern was that people would start to trickle back into the countryside soon enough. Geralt privately thought that that was all well and good, but it wouldn't take long until people fleeing worse conditions further north would make it to the city. Hopefully Emhyr was right and the might of Nilfgaard would have arrived by then. He also heard a few people talking about a badly scarred witcher that has passed through their village two weeks ago, so at least Eskel was out there somewhere. Emhyr appeared not long after he'd finished his drink, so they ate and retired gratefully to their separate rooms.

 

-

 

The road to Vizma was thick with people, humans and non-humans alike. Geralt was keeping a sharp eye out for opportunistic monsters when Emhyr caught his attention and indicated a group of elves who were stopped by the side of the road.

“They’re from one of the Redanian hunter clans,” he stated, already reigning his horse around to ride towards him.

They looked exactly the same as the last group of elves they had passed, down to the cut and cloth of their clothes, but Emhyr was already too far away to ask how he knew so Geralt carefully cut across the stream of people to follow him off the road.

By the time he and Roach had negotiated their way to the side of the road Emhyr had already dismounted and was speaking to a young female elf who carried a pair swords and a bow on her back. She spoke with the sing-song lilt of one of the older dialects of Elder Speech, meaning that Geralt was only able to catch every second word or so. it didn't sound great - she said she had come down from the forests of Hengfors and most of the villagers she'd seen were dead or deserted.

“Thank you,” Emhyr continued in the Elder Speech, “please, for your trouble,” and he offered the elf a few coins. It was clear that she was torn between pride and need, but in the end she took the coins, inclined her head stiffly and continued on her way.

They rode on for a short while, but Geralt apparently had left his good sense in the tent this morning as he commented, “that was kind.”

Judging from the sour look Emhyr gave him, he had not been as successful at keeping the surprise out of his voice as he’d hoped.

“I’m not a monster,” Emhyr replied.

Geralt signed to himself. He was, at times, a fool.

“I know that, Emhyr. I wouldn’t have helped you find Ciri if I’d thought you were.”

They rode in silence then, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. A couple of hours down the road the people thinned out and some drowners appeared, but it was now rare that they rode for more than a couple of hours _without_ seeing monsters of some sort. They set up for the night a little way off the side of the road, within a natural clearing in the trees.

They were well used to the rhythm of travelling together by now, and they needed no words to go about their evening ritual, but in the dark of the tent, Emhyr suddenly said, “she is my daughter.”

"I know," Geralt replied as if three hours had not passed since they had been speaking of her. Emhyr said no more, and Geralt soon fell asleep, feeling somehow lighter despite the death that surrounded them.

 

-

 

He awoke suddenly, adrenaline lending him speed and an instant understanding of the situation, which was thus: he was in a tent about fifty miles from the nearest city with Emhyr var Emreis, former Emperor of the North and South, who was currently stock-still beneath him as a single pearl of blood bloomed beneath the blade that Geralt held to his throat. He jerked back the knife but stayed where he was, braced above a prone Emhyr, horror binding him in place.

“Geralt?” Came the soft query.

He briefly bowed his head low enough that his unbound hair touched Emhyr’s shoulder, before rolling away and up in one easy motion. He thought he mumbled something about breakfast as he left the tent, but he couldn’t be sure.

He didn’t even know what he’d been dreaming of. He felt better by the time he’d finished breakfast though, and Emhyr emerged from the tent just as he was about to call for him. He nodded a greeting then helped himself to tea and a hot oatcake before sitting down on the other side of the fire. They ate in silence, which was normal, but the morning violence had unsettled some of the ease that had been building between them.

“You seemed to be distressed so I moved to wake you. I shouldn’t have done so,” Emhyr finally said, which almost sounded like an apology.

Geralt cleared his throat, feeling as if there was some tension beyond that caused by his instinctive reaction to being woken from a nightmare.

“It was nothing,” he replied, “er, sorry for almost slitting your throat.”

Emhyr raised an eyebrow at him and like that the tension was gone, leaving Geralt to wonder if he’d imagined it.

 

-

 

A little over two weeks later, they reached the Pontar. The ferry that took them across was empty and Geralt was grateful for the heavy purse that Emhyr had brought, as the ferry master had charged them double to go against the steady flow of people crossing from Temeria to Redania. Across the other side of the river a hundred or so people were camped, either those who couldn’t afford or didn’t wish to travel any further.

Ciri had finally caught up with them in La Valette. Well, a stern-faced Lieutenant had delivered letters to each of them, along with formal greetings to her father and adoptive father that were no doubt undermined by whatever dire threats she’d written. He’d put off reading it until they’d settled down for the night on the other side of the river, and was gratified to see that even Emhyr wasn’t immune to fear of the wrath of Ciri, and also hadn’t yet cracked the seal on his letter.

“Did the Empress have any words of wisdom for you?” Emhyr finally asked, after reading his own missive.

“That although she is sure I had a reason for bringing you along without escort or guard, she can’t imagine what it would be. She also states that we better be doing something actually useful, rather than just riding around being sarcastic at each other.” Geralt replied. “She says I should watch out for you,” he added.

Emhyr snorted, “she instructed me to do the same.”

They shared a fond look.

That the armies of Nilfgaard had reached as far as the Protectorate of Redania was reassuring, but they were still at least four weeks away from where Geralt hoped they would find the source of the spell. They asked among the families camped alongside the river, but none of them knew much more than they did. Geralt was careful to note the names of their villages and the dates they gave for when the spell first hit - hopefully if they spoke to enough people they would be able to get an idea of where they were heading. For now though they could do nothing but try to get a good night’s sleep.

 

-

 

He didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to him that he might be visited by his own dead.

He knew that Vesemir had loved him in his own way, but it was one thing to have a vague inkling that his mentor might have thought of him more as an adopted son once or twice, and another to be confronted by the reality of Vesemir's corpse waiting for him outside the tent one morning. He had been on the other side of the Continent when he'd heard of his death, so his first thought was at least this time he would be able to build the pyre himself. It was a fucking selfish thought though, Vesemir wouldn't have wanted this, he would have wanted to be saved the indignity of having this corpse pulled out of his final resting place because some dumb shit had cast some fucking stupid spell and… Geralt closed his eyes and tried to get a handle on his breathing before he woke up Emhyr.

He made a small pyre with the firewood he had planned to use to make breakfast, tied Vesemir to the middle of it and set it alight. Emhyr woke not long after, and came and stood silently with him while it burned. He didn't ask who it was burning and Geralt didn't offer the information. Knowing Emhyr, he probably knew already anyhow.

The next morning he was back though, and the one after that. The third time he had to burn Vesemir he sat down beside the fire and cried. He put one hand over his face and after a moment reached out blindly with the other until he felt Emhyr take his hand in both of his. He moved to sit next to Geralt, close enough that he could feel the warmth of him. Emhyr gripped his hand tight and Geralt held on just as tightly until he could be quiet again.

The next morning he woke with a feeling of dread. Three burnings were the maximum he had heard needed to put the dead to their final rest, but the closer they got to the source of this fucking chaos perhaps that number would increase. He couldn't burn Vesemir again, he just couldn't.

"He is not there."

He was so distracted by his own misery that he hadn't noticed that Emhyr had evidently woken before him for once.

“You checked?” He asked.

“Yes, he has not returned.”

Geralt was slightly ashamed of the strength of gratitude he felt. He’d faced untold horrors and yet he was glad beyond the telling of it that he would not have to face his mentor’s corpse again.

“Thank you,” he replied, not sure what else to say.

Emhyr was quiet for long enough that Geralt thought about getting up instead of lying side by side, awake and awkward, but then he spoke again.

“Thank you for allowing me to accompany you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied, some ingrained politeness saving him from having to think of anything intelligent to say in the face of Emhyr’s gratitude. He did get up then, leaving Emhyr to dress.

It therefore was inevitable that when he sat down to breakfast for the first time in three days without feeling like absolute shit, a whole fucking _legion_ of drowners wandered out of the nearest bushes, setting off the wards and causing Emhyr to tumble out of the tent, sword in hand. Geralt killed two of them before he’d even stood up fully, beheading them with the opening sweep of his swords. He poured energy into an _igni_ , killing two more outright and stunning another six or so. He dispatched them quickly, almost recklessly, aware of Emhyr behind him with his own sword in his hand. The fight was over in less than three minutes, and Geralt turned to Emhyr, taking two steps forward when he smelt blood.

“I am fine,” Emhyr said, holding up a hand as if to warn Geralt from coming any further.

“I can smell the blood,” Geralt admitted.

“It is a scratch. We are only a day’s ride from Rinde, it will hold until then.”

Geralt was reluctant to let the matter go, but Emhyr seemed determined not to let him near enough to check the wound, and Geralt knew better than to argue with him. They rode to Rinde.

 

-

 

It turned out to be a shallow cut, only needing washing out and wrapping, but it was about six inches below Emhyr's right arm, towards his back, so it was just easier for Geralt to deal with it. Emhyr had only allowed Geralt to look at it once they had been coldly informed that the local healers did not deal with Witchers or anyone who travelled with them. Emhyr had been livid, but there was nothing he could do without revealing who he was, so they had instead rented rooms from a slightly less hostile tavern owner.

He was sat sideways on the room’s only chair, stripped to the waist while Geralt leant down on one knee to better reach the injury.

"I think this is as close as you have ever gotten to kneeling for me," Emhyr remarked, amusement in his tone.

Geralt resolutely did not react to the double entendre - there was not even the slightest possibility that Emhyr had meant it, he told himself sternly - and replied lightly that Emhyr had better not get used to it.

Emhyr huffed what would’ve have been a laugh for any other person.

“Done,” Geralt announced a minute later, and looked up to find Emhyr watching him, his face unreadable.

He wanted to say something, anything, to break the sudden tension, but his mind had gone unhelpfully blank. Slowly Emhyr lowered his hand to Geralt’s face, his thumb resting on the vulnerable skin just below his eye.

 _He’s going to kiss me_ , Geralt thought, inanely, and then Emhyr did exactly that. It was nothing more than a dry press of lips before he leant back a little, just enough to meet Geralt’s eyes. It wasn’t that Emhyr was a man, Geralt had been out in the world too much to care about the gender of those he took to bed, it was that it was _Emhyr-var-fucking-Emreis_ who had kissed him that was causing his mind to turn frantic backflips instead of offering any input to the situation he found himself in.

“I see I have miss-stepped.” Emhyr said, visibly rebuilding the walls that had gradually been eroding between them as they journeyed together, “I will go see about some food,” He stood and pulled on his shirt in one smooth gesture, and then was out of the door.

Geralt stayed where he was for a second, kneeling on the hard wooden floor, then he put his supplies away and sat in the furthest corner to meditate.

 

-

 

He and Yennefer had been a good match, both in intellect and in bed, and his connection to Ciri had meant that she had gotten the daughter she never thought she'd had. Emhyr had access to beautiful and skilled courtesans whenever he so wished; Ciri had already returned to him, and it wasn't like he needed his own Witcher when he had an army at his beck and call... So what was it? Was it a new effect of the spell?

That morning they had moved around each other with the same stilted politeness that had marked their first few weeks on the road. After about four hours of painful silence, Geralt was grinding his teeth in annoyance. They were heading out towards Tretogor, and from there hoping to make it to the northern edge of the protectorate in under four weeks. Of course, large numbers of monsters, abandoned homes and livelihoods equalled bandits, and lo and behold five of them attempted to sneak up on them about halfway into the day's ride. Geralt was delighted for the distraction and the bandits were so shocked by his look of heartfelt welcome that they hesitated a whole five seconds, which was plenty of time for Geralt to take their swords off them and send them on their way. Then he was once again left with Emhyr's frigid silence, which lasted the whole rest of the day and followed them as they made camp for the night.

Geralt knew he was being ridiculous, reckless even. There were untold numbers of necrophages waiting for them in the dark and here he was, watching Emhyr put up a ploughing tent instead of doing any number of other, more useful, things. After ten minutes of half-heartedly collecting firewood and scraping out a fire pit, he announced he was going to walk the perimeter and went to do exactly that without waiting for a reply. Not that he would've gotten one.

This far into the spell he’d been creating a double barrier of spellwork that would discourage necrophages and also served as an early warning if anything breached it. It was a little wearing to be doing it every night but more than once he’d woken up to discover a handful or more of ghouls converging on their tent. Tonight he paid even more care, aware that he was distracted. They ate a cold supper and Geralt was first to retire, wanting to be able to at least fake sleep when Emhyr finally decided to join him. Instead he found himself listening to the small sounds that indicated where Emhyr was in the camp, telling himself that it was out of concern for his safety. When Emhyr finally entered the tent he lay down just a handspan away to sleep: it was no closer than they usually slept, but Geralt was exquisitely aware of his nearness, of the rhythm of his breaths and the close warmth of him.

“Emhyr…” he said, then had no idea how to finish. Emhyr understood instantly of course and as he rolled over to face him, Geralt moved to meet him.

There was nothing hesitant about the kiss, both of them pushing away blankets and clothing, touching what skin they could reach. They rubbed against each other, the friction half pain, half pleasure, but Geralt for one was already too far gone to do much more than fuck into the hot skin alongside Emhyr’s cock. Emhyr gripped the back of his neck as he kissed him with far more coordination than Geralt was capable of. They were silent except for the obscene sound of skin on skin and their heavy breaths. Emhyr moved to kiss and lightly bite at his throat, and Geralt had grit his teeth to keep from moaning aloud.

Emhyr came first, his quiet groan sending Geralt over the edge. He collapsed half on top of Emhyr, breathing hard.

As soon as he had the requisite energy he started to roll off to his side, but Emhyr put and hand on his back to hold him lightly in place. “I am not uncomfortable,” he said, so Geralt lowered himself back down and tried not to think too much.

The next morning it was clear that perhaps they should have made some effort to clean up last night. The expression of horror on Emhyr’s face as they had peeled away from each other was such that Geralt had laughed. Emhyr had looked at him first in annoyance, and then with something a little softer, so Geralt had to kiss him, which had only led to more mess.

Now though they were up, dressed and loading the horses. Geralt was aware that he kept glancing over at Emhyr, but he couldn’t help it. He always had to know how bad something was straight away: he had never had any patience for drawing things out. He couldn’t count how many times Vesemir had told him to hold his horses whilst he’d tried to guess the end of a story or lesson. He wanted to know where the edges of this thing were: he wanted to know if he was permitted to tuck a stray piece of hair behind Emhyr’s ear, or if it was the kind of intimacy that only happened in the dark: the kind that could not survive in the light of day.

Emhyr of course noticed and came over to where he was tying and re-tying the knots that kept his pack tied to his saddle. He put his hand over Geralt’s, stilling his movements.

“I think it is well secured, don’t you?” He said, quietly.

Geralt just nodded, but when Emhyr let go and went back to swing up onto his horse he felt steadier.

They rode in silence, but after an hour Geralt nudged Roach close enough so that they were riding side by side, legs bushing against each other with the easy rhythm of the horses’ movement. Emhyr glanced at him, but neither commented or moved away.

 

-

 

They reached Tretogor in time to have supper at an inn on the outskirts of the city. Here local soldiers had been doing the hard work by the look of it: great pyres burnt steadily on the other side of the city and the tavern owner informed them that there was a curfew in place. Soldiers were also performing random searches on houses. Apparently more than a few people had decided that they didn’t want to see their loved ones burn, dead or not, and had decided that keeping them hidden was a better idea.

Once they had finished their food they headed up to their rooms, but after Geralt had removed his swords and armor he was at a loss as to what to do next. Emhyr walked in from his adjoining room, looking at the gauntlets he held in his hands rather than at Geralt.

“Go see about a bathhouse, would you?” he demanded, without looking up.

Geralt seethed at the command but threw his swords back over his shoulder before heading out. He was half happy to have something to do and half annoyed at being ordered out of the rooms.

The barmaid directed him to a large stone building a short walk from the tavern. By the time he got there Geralt had worked himself up into enough of a temper that he decided it was a bad idea to go back to fetch Emhyr, and that if he wanted a bath he could work out where to find the ploughing bathhouse himself.

He paid a few coins to borrow a towel and stripped, giving a boy another coin to keep a careful eye on his belongings. He then waded into the hot water with a sigh. It was not busy, in fact the only other occupants were a few youths who had gone silent when he had entered. Geralt closed his eyes and resolutely ignored them, but they started up whispering and he couldn’t help but pick out their words.

“I hear their blood is poison, and when you cut them it burns like acid!”

“What if the poison seeps out into the water?”

Geralt sighed. How could they be so stupid and yet still be able to walk and breathe at the same time? He opened his eyes long enough to glare in their direction, and they all decided that they suddenly needed to be elsewhere, leaving him to brood in blissful silence.

Not five minutes later Emhyr lowered himself into the bath and sat opposite him.

“I thought you might have informed me where the bathhouse was first,” he said, mildly.

“Figured you’d work it out.”

"You're angry with me," Emhyr replied, sounding surprised at the revelation.

“No… Yeah, actually I am. I don’t even fucking know what you want from me. You haven’t spoken a single word to me all day and…”

“Geralt.” Emhyr interrupted him.

“What?” He ground out.

“What I want is for you to come here.” And he spread his arms out along the side of the bath, his shoulders flexing in the steam.

Geralt grit his teeth and made his way over, trying to get a grip on his temper. But it was easy to forget he was angry when Emhyr pulled him into his lap, kissing him deeply. Geralt was vaguely aware that this was probably not the place for such behaviour.

“Are you clean?” Emhyr pulled back to ask, and it took Geralt a second to make sense of the question.

“Am I…? Wait, Emhyr, this is a public bath.”

Emhyr ignored him, dragging a bowl of the oil used for massage towards the edge of the bath, seemingly wholly unconcerned that perhaps the townsfolk may be less than delighted to discover two men fucking in their bathhouse.

"Up," he said, urging Geralt to kneel so that only his lower legs remained submerged. Geralt obeyed without thought and any protest he might have made was caught in an involuntary sound as Emhyr reached and slipped an oiled finger between his legs. Emhyr braced one hand on the top of Geralt's thigh as the other worked in and out of him, and when Geralt looked down Emhyr was watching him with a steady gaze. He took a breath to say something intelligent, perhaps about not wanting to be arrested for indecency, but Emhyr added a second finger and it was all Geralt could do to stay upright.

After a few minutes he guided Geralt down onto his cock, and they both groaned when he was fully seated in Emhyr’s lap. They were of a height, but the position meant that Emhyr had to lean up slightly to kiss him. It took mere seconds for Geralt to forget that he had meant to protest Emhyr’s choice of venue and instead he ground down, chasing the last couple of millimeters of length as Emhyr thrust upwards into him.

“Is this what you wanted?” Emhyr panted, “to be taken? For me to _stake my claim_?”

Geralt moaned, both at the words and at the punishing pace Emhyr had set. Water sloshed over the sides of the bath and the wet sound of their fucking was loud in the echoing space.

Emhyr didn't seem to be worried about making a mess of the water—he didn't seem to be worried about anything in fact except fucking him as thoroughly as possible, so Geralt didn't bother to try to control the sounds he was making. When they had both come he collapsed against Emhyr, who pushed his damp hair off his face and kissed him chastely.

“Perhaps we should wash again,” he suggested, which Geralt took as he cue to lever himself of Emhyr and make some vague effort to wash the sweat from his hair.

Once they were dressed, Geralt indicated to Emhyr that he should proceed before him out of the bathhouse, more out of a desire not to be the one to face the owner first than from any sense of chivalry. No doubt Emhyr was aware but he swept out first regardless and greeted the owner cordially, who looked much more pleased to see the men who had been fucking in his baths than one would expect.

“You paid them off!” Geralt hissed as they left the smiling owner to his less than sanitary establishment.

“Of course I paid them off,” Emhyr replied, eyebrow raised, “did you think I would risk being flogged for public indecency?”

Geralt gaped after him for a moment as he strode up the street towards the inn, regal despite his worn and dirty clothes.

He took two quick strides to catch up, and they quickly reached their rooms. Emhyr followed him into his then stood and watched as Geralt fiddled first with his amour and then with his pack.

“Why did you get us two rooms?” Emhyr finally asked.

“I didn’t know what you wanted.” Geralt replied, knowing that wasn’t quite what he wanted to say, but unsure how to phrase it even to himself.

Emhyr walked over to him and kissed him, “let there be no misunderstanding: I want you in my bed.”

_And out of it?_

He didn’t ask.

 

-

 

 

“OK,” Geralt said between desperate swings of his sword, “new plan.”

"I was not aware that there had been an old one," Emhyr said from behind him.

They’d been sleeping soundly when the sounds of something - or as it turned out: many, many somethings - scrabbling towards them and setting off the wards had woken Geralt. He’d dived for his swords and rolled out of the tent half-dressed to be confronted with a whole fucking _swarm_ of devourers.

“On my say-so make for the horses and ride out of here,” He continued to Emhyr, who he’d ordered to stay behind him in the relative safety of his hastily cast Quen shield. “I’ll meet you half a mile north at sunrise.”

“No.”

"Emhyr," he said, lopping off the arm of one just an another tried to sneak past him. He stabbed that one then flipped to get rid of one that had jumped onto his back. "I can't fight them _and_ protect you. Go!”

There was a pause where Geralt killed another two, then Emhyr spoke again.

“Very well,” he agreed.

There were likely more necrophages out there, but if given the choice between a horsed man and one on the ground, they were going to go for the easier prey. Well, that's what he was relying on anyway. Then Emhyr was gone and Geralt shoved any thought of him out of his mind until nothing but the kill remained. By the time he hacked apart the last devourer, there was so much blood on the ground he was in danger of slipping with every step.

He sat down on the nearest corpse-free rock to clean his swords, then heaved himself up and started walking in the direction he’d sent Emhyr. Roach would’ve followed the other horse, so he didn’t even bother whistling for her, he just concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. They’d have to come back for the tent, but he was damned if he was going to pack up their belongings by himself and haul them up the road when he could just ride back for them. That’s what he told himself, anyway, but he mostly wanted to be sure that Emhyr was alright before he started worrying about where they were going to sleep the next night.

Emhyr was fine. He was sat on the side of the road, a little closer than Geralt had directed him, the two horses cropping grass with their reins trailing. It was just starting to get light as he made his way up the road, and it took Emhyr longer that he thought it would to notice him walking towards him. When he finally did Geralt was almost upon him, and he stood and took two strides forward, but didn’t touch the Witcher. Geralt wasn’t surprised, he was covered from head to toe in guts, blood, and brain matter.

“Are you hurt?”

“No,” Geralt shook his head, “Just thirsty, and we need to go back to get the tent.”

Emhyr nodded but made no move towards the horses.

“Emhyr, I’m fine,” Geralt said, a little softer.

He abruptly turned to the horses then, and Geralt clicked his tongue for Roach who reluctantly left off the grass to trudge towards him. He had no idea how good horses' sense of smell was, but she must have been pretty much immune by now. He took a long swig of water from his back and then swung himself into the saddle. Emhyr was already seated, so they made their way back down the road. Emhyr packed up the tent while Geralt went to the nearest stream to scrub at his armor and hair. Mostly clean, or cleaner anyway, they mounted up again and went back to the road. Geralt hoped to reach the next town by nightfall, so at least there was a remote possibility they’d be able to sleep in a bed that night. Emhyr was still quiet, but Geralt had discovered it was best to let him be.

They ate a quick breakfast in the saddle then continued onwards. Most of the villages they passed were completely abandoned, and Geralt had had to rely on hunting more and more in order to keep them fed. By buying drinks for what seemed like half the population of Nilfgaard they'd narrowed down the source of the spell to somewhere a two-day ride north-west of Ghelibol. They were still two weeks away from the city though, and it was starting to get uncomfortably cold at night. Not that it bothered Geralt, but Emhyr woke up shivering more often than not, so they were taking the time to stop at what towns there were to stock up on food and see if anyone knew anything further about where they were headed.

At least no-one was going to look at them askance for taking only one room as the inn was full to bursting already. It was good news for them though, as there were likely people from near the northern border among them and what they most needed now was information. They had retired to their room and Geralt was about to suggest that they split up and go get exactly that when Emhyr spoke.

"I would rather not leave you again," he stated with his back to the room.

Geralt swallowed, caught off guard but very much wanting Emhyr to mean _ever_ rather than just _leave you to fight alone._

He nodded, even though Emhyr couldn’t see it.

"How about we spar when we have the time?" He suggested, although that was uncomfortably close to discussing what would happen after the spell, a subject which so far they had both avoided.

“That would be acceptable, yes.” He replied, turning.

Geralt had no idea if Emhyr would want comfort or not, or even what to do if he did, but that seemed to be the end of the conversation. They each went and drank in a separate inn, and came back late enough that Geralt expected Emhyr to want to do nothing but sleep, but that night there was something desperate in the way they fucked, Geralt face down on the bed with Emhyr pressed against him from head to toe.

The next morning they had continued as usual, riding out early with their replenished supplies and discussing the scant information they had been able to pry out of the townsfolk the night before.

"How is your seat this morning?" Emhyr asked once they had come to the conclusion that they were right to be headed north-west, towards the mountains.

Geralt looked at him to answer but was struck by the look on Emhyr's face.

“Are you _proud_?” He asked, disbelieving.

Emhyr shot him a quelling glance in reply.

Geralt shook his head, a little amazed at what he'd seen and then winced as Roach took an unexpected trot to clear a tree root. There was a soft snort beside him, and Geralt couldn't stop the laughter that spilled out of him, startling a flock of nearby crows into sudden flight.

 

-

 

That night he dreamed that Ciri was waiting for him outside of their tent and that when he had reached for her he had smelt the rot and known that she was dead. He awoke with tears on his face, and just lay and breathed for a while listening to the soft sounds of Emhyr sleeping beside him.

He didn’t often consider the life he led. Having seen most of his peers die one by one in the Trails, he had developed an understandably blasé attitude to his own mortality. Yes, he was skilled and strong, but it was also luck that had kept him alive all these years. It was strange to think of his own inevitable end on the path and feel something like regret. Emhyr had been right, he did want to be there for the birth of his granddaughter. He wanted a lot of things he hadn’t let himself think about before, but the question was always, did they want him back? Ciri he was more sure of, despite the damage his reputation may or may not do to her in Court. He had meant what he had said to Emhyr: she could handle herself, both with a sword and magics, or the political power she now wielded so expertly. He also could see now that Emhyr would have found a way to put a stop to his visits if he had truly believed them to be a serious threat to Ciri’s reputation. Now, he hoped, Emhyr would hesitate to have him assassinated for some greater purpose, but whether he wanted his company beyond this task they had set themselves, he had no idea.

 

-

 

Along with a story of dubious veracity that someone had told him about a fairy and a wish gone wrong, Geralt thought they had enough information about where and when the dead had started to rise. They were now able to narrow down their destination somewhat, so they pored over their maps well into the night. Geralt had finally drawn a circle around three villages in the foothills of the Kestrel mountains that seemed to be the most likely places for where the dead had risen first. Emhyr was still staring intently at the maps when Geralt decided that maybe they should retire.

“I have seen this somewhere before,” Emhyr said, mostly to himself.

“Yeah? You sure you’re not just thinking of last year’s raids against the Coram Agh Tera?” Geralt asked.

“No, I am not. Though if they had not been so thoroughly destroyed they would have been one of my first contenders for causing this mess.”

“Yeah, me too,” Geralt agreed. “So what is it?” he added.

“I do not know, I cannot place it.”

“Come on, let’s sleep on it, it’ll come to you or not.”

He got an annoyed look for that piece of advice, but he did get ready for bed, shivering in the cold air and promptly putting his cold hands under Geralt once they were wrapped up in bed together. It quickly became clear that Emhyr was determined to ruminate on where he had seen the map they had drawn before, so Geralt made himself comfortable against Emhyr's side, who instantly began to run a hand through his hair.

He knew he loved to be touched. It wasn't even hard to work out why with his especially pathetic childhood, but Emhyr also seemed to know and he wasn't sure how he felt about him being privy to something so personal. There was no help for it: Emhyr had probably always known that the quickest way to defeat him would be to offer him a hug and a foot rub, but he didn't know _why_ he had begun to indulge him and it was eating at him. They had been fucking for three weeks but this was comfort, and he didn’t quite know what to do with it.

So of course, this was the moment his mouth decided to engage without his full permission. “Why now?” He asked, and Emhyr’s hand stilled in his hair.

"A number of reasons, I imagine. Seeing Pavetta again: a reminder that I… A reminder of what I have not allowed myself for all these years. Proximity played a part, no doubt; I have always known you were more than a mere sword for hire, that despite your claim that you are just as much a monster as the next man, you never compromise on what you believe is right. Your very presence demands the same from others, and I have seen people change their behaviour rather than disappoint you." He started stroking his hand through Geralt's hair again. "I found myself exhibiting the same behaviour and, it is was only a short step from not wanting to disappoint you to finding ourselves here, I think."

Geralt brought up his hand and placed it over Emhyr’s where it lay on his chest. They stayed that way for a long time and when he awoke early the next morning, they were still entwined.

 

-

 

"I know where I have seen this place before," Emhyr announced suddenly, an hour into their journey.

Geralt looked to him, interest piqued by the undercurrent of excitement in Emhyr’s voice.

“When I was a boy we had a great collection of rare books and scrolls,” he continued, “including some priceless copies of elven lore, many of which had been copied themselves from elven texts before they had been destroyed along with their cities. One such detailed a small city that had once stood in the foothills of the Kestrel Mountains. Pass me the maps, would you?”

Geralt reached into his pack and passed over the maps they’d drawn last night.

“Yes, here - ‘Irragin’ - it is almost on top of the old city.”

Geralt peered over at the map then looked back up at Emhyr. “So sometime before the age of 13 you saw a map, presumably written in some lost dialect of Elder Speech, and you remembered it well enough to be able to recognise a village on a map drawn by me on an old piece of parchment?”

Emhyr actually rolled his eyes, which was worth the whole two-month journey as far as Geralt was concerned.

“You are missing the point,” he said.

Geralt really didn’t think he was, but he was also not sure why he even bothered being surprised: Emhyr was Emhyr.

“OK, so this village is likely near some ancient, powerful elven artefacts. Let’s go take a look then.”

They turned their horses a little more east and cut around the edge of a field of crops gone to ruin. Even if they managed to put an end to the spell, it was going to be a long time until the places affected would be able to get back to normal.

“Were there any other copies made?” He asked, wondering if there was any way some mage or other could have got hold of the same book.

“Not that I’ve discovered,” Emhyr replied, in a tone that suggested that he’d searched well.

“What happened to the original?” Geralt asked, a little uncertain. Usually getting Emhyr to speak about anything personal was like prising a corpse off a drowner: messy and painful.

"The Usurper gave away many of the older texts that my father had collected as gifts to those who had supported him," Emhyr answered, to Geralt's quiet surprise. "When I returned many of those houses were either killed our outcast for their role in my father's death, but I could not get rid of so many great houses, therefore there were those among the remaining who had received tokens from the Usurper. Understandably, they have kept them hidden so as not to remind me where their loyalties had lain. I have always assumed that either House Wariner or House Pawlin still holds it, but unless I wished to accuse them of treason it is a text that will likely remain out of my reach."

“At least that means no other idiot is likely to have a copy.”

Emhyr made a noise of agreement, and they continued on.

 

-

 

They had ridden past a few fields where ghouls stood in the open, feeding on the reanimated corpse of someone’s loved one. There wasn’t enough time in the world to kill all the monsters attracted by the sudden influx of rotting meat, but it unsettled even Geralt to ride past something that looked to all intents and purposes like it was eating a living person. Even without the placid acceptance of the walking dead, Geralt could smell the rot from half a mile away. His unconscious, however, was less understanding, and more than once he had woken up from nightmares where he had blithely ridden on by as a young man or woman was slowly consumed.

Although he no longer touched him to wake him, Emhyr had taken to calling his name when he became aware of Geralt’s nightmares. Once Geralt was fully awake he would reach out for Emhyr who would comfort him with his nearness.

They were riding past one such field now, and Geralt had privately decided that perhaps he would benefit more from meditation than sleep that night.

"Perhaps we should give the horses a break," Emhyr suggested.

It was a little early for them to be stopping, but Geralt assumed that Emhyr was just hungry and didn’t want to say so, so he agreed and they reigned the horses in once they were out of sight of the necrophages. He dismounted and turned from Roach to find Emhyr already behind him and reaching for him. He fell easily into the short kiss, it was instinctual at this point. When Emhyr pulled back he kept his hands curled around Geralt, “they already had their time in the world, they do not need you to save them.” he said.

He kissed him again, chastely, then turned back to his horse who had taken a few steps towards the undergrowth, while Geralt tried to get his bearings. Every time he thought he understood the limits of this thing between them, Emhyr moved to extend the boundaries. Geralt was a little ashamed of himself for how easily he moved into the spaces that Emhyr had carved out for him, but he found he could not refuse when Emhyr was the one who was offering.

They ate their lunch in companionable silence, and Geralt resolutely did not think how close they were to the end of their journey and all that would entail.

 

-

 

Even without Emhyr's arcane knowledge of ancient elven cities, it was very clear when they rode into Irragin the next morning that something terrible had happened there. The small cluster of thatched houses all held signs of a struggle, and there were faint tracks that lead out past the boundary fences and into the scrub. Geralt followed the tracks, occasionally backtracking when they became too faint or had washed away, until they came to a natural cave in the foothills. Geralt waded into the frigid water that led the way into the dark and heard Emhyr hiss as he did the same. The water only came to their mid-calves, but it was icy in the way that only mountain streams could be.

There were no tracks to follow in the water of course, but an hour of searching lead to the discovery of what Geralt had originally thought were natural markings in the stone, which Emhyr assured him were a form of Elder Speech - possibly pre-Conjunction. They climbed up the short scramble to the ledge where the words were carved, and like an illusion, an open doorway appeared in front of them once they were stood on the ledge itself. Here there were more signs of savagery in the form of dried blood and scrapings in the dirt. The entrance was completely invisible from the cave floor, and Geralt could feel only the faintest edge of the magics that must have been sunk into the stone.

Emhyr was peering at the symbols carved above the entrance, but he only shook his head when Geralt asked their meaning.

"They seem incomplete—as if something has scoured away some of the words."

There was no airflow either, Geralt realised: air didn't enter the opening and he could feel no air currents coming from within it either. He was about to mention it to Emhyr when he stepped past Geralt into the gaping doorway. He swore and quickly stepped in after him.

The broken edges of a powerful boundary spell pulled at him as he passed under the broken lintel, the magic running over him like silken threads of power. Old magic. It felt like a storm: powerful and unknowable. The second thing he noticed, aside from the unnatural darkness of the place, was the smell: it was atrocious. Geralt guessed there must be at least a dozen bodies waiting for them somewhere further in - they'd have had to be pretty thoroughly dismembered to smell that bad. Emhyr, whose reaction to horror had significantly lessened after more than two months on the road, had found a posey somewhere on his person and now held it up to his face, looking a little green.

“You can wait up here if you want.” Geralt offered, not expecting him to agree.

Emhyr just shook his head, so they plunged onwards into the filthy darkness.

There were sconces along the wall, but Geralt didn't bother lighting them. He could see well enough in the gloom and Emhyr held his own torch behind him. After about an hour of walking they eventually came to a room with a great sense of space about it, and after several paces the ground became slick and uneven. Geralt cast a quiet _igni_ to light the torches circling the walls, revealing a scene that defied description: he guessed the tumble of limbs on the raised platform in the middle of the room had belonged to about six people at one point. He turned to make sure Emhyr was alright, but he was studying the script looped around the circular room that ran over the stone floor and up under the matted mess on the altar.

“Does it say anything useful?” He asked.

“It says something about a sacrifice, but not in this meaning of the word,” he waved at the putrid remains, “rather, the caster must give up something of value in order to balance the spell.”

Geralt looked at where Emhyr was reading then looked back at the mess of the room. On second glance it looked like a least one person had literally exploded, hopefully the caster of the spell if there was any justice in the world.

"I think they may have mistranslated that part."

Emhyr gave him a dry look then went back to studying the script.

“It states that you must ‘cut the words’ once the bargain has been fulfilled...” He followed the script around the room, eventually coming back to the entrance. “Can you clear the altar?” He asked.

Geralt sighed and set about doing exactly that, piling the various body parts up near the entrance for cremation, and then using a simple sign to clear the remaining blood and viscera. Sure enough there were neat lines of script carved into the surface. Most of them looked like a repeating single phrase, all with a split down the middle of the words, except the last which had been scratched lightly into the surface and alone remained whole and unbroken.

It said, in the Common Tongue, _Bring My Love To Me_.

He must have stared at them for too long, long enough for Emhyr to notice.

“Geralt,” he said, from behind him.

Geralt turned and Emhyr put a hand on the back of his neck, gripping firmly. It was a gesture that was already becoming familiar, and a part of him, the part that could not believe there was a reason for this that was non-magical, despaired of losing it.

"This is not the spell," Emhyr said and kissed him firmly. "It is not."

He nodded, unable to find his voice, then he turned out of Emhyr’s grip and brought his sword down in one smooth movement, splitting the words in two.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [tumblr](http://xpityx.tumblr.com/).


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